


The Drowned

by sistercacao



Series: The Drowned [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Duo Maxwell, Post-Canon, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistercacao/pseuds/sistercacao
Summary: Years after the war, Duo decides to self-destruct in the arms of someone who reminds him of another man long gone in his past.





	The Drowned

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2010. One of my personal favorites I've written. I finally finished the companion fic to this piece, [The Phantom.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583452)

The first thing I think of this guy is  _he looks exactly like Heero_. Then I think,  _I’ve been drinking too much_. Even so, I lift the glass to the guy who bought it for me, who’s watching me at the other end of the bar, who looks like Heero in this dim shitty light and my dim shitty inebriation.  
  
_Cheers, fucker_ , I think, and kick it back. Gin and something else. Gin used to be like water to me way back in the day. Hell, I kept a bottle tucked away in ‘Scythe’s cockpit just for those long trips where it was just him and me. But I haven’t drank any in a long, long time.  
  
We’re not exactly in the kind of place where a stranger knows it’s safe to pick up other guys. No one’s going to jump his ass, probably, but you do that sort of thing too much in the wrong joint and you might get a reputation. Not that I care about what happens to this guy. It’s my ass I’m looking out for.  
  
Except, I’m pretty goddamn drunk. Got fired today, again, and now I’m spending the last paycheck I might be seeing in a while on booze, again. I fully intend to accept the drink and then ignore Mr. Good Samaritan for the rest of the night, but I really can’t tear my eyes away from him. I’m trying to figure out what it is about him that reminds me so much of Heero but I can’t really place it. Shit, I can barely see him at all. He could be forty. He could be younger than me. He’s got a brown shirt on, messy hair. He’s nursing a beer, but he apparently has no problem laying down a few creds to put the moves on me. Guess he’s got something in mind.  
  
In fact, I see him getting up from his seat about a second before I realize we’ve been making eye contact a good couple of minutes. Hell, I all but gave him the invite over. He circles the bar and approaches me. His shirt looked brown from far away but I can see now that it’s actually red fading into grey.  
  
“Is this seat taken?” he says. Deep voice. I shrug, and he sits down anyway.  
  
I’m hit with it again now that I can get a good look at him:  _fuck, he looks like Heero_. It’s fucking creepy. Angled face, serious expression, brown messy hair falling into his eyes–  
  
He turns to look at me and I flinch a little. His eyes are brown. It hits me then just how much I had been hoping, for a minute, that they were blue.  
  
_I’m such an idiot_ , I think to myself. Of course I am. This guy is my age, how the fuck would I recognize Heero now? He was a kid when I knew him. I saw Quatre on TV the other day and fuck if he didn’t look like a completely different person with ten years on him.  
  
Not to mention... not to mention that the last time I’d heard of Heero was the notice I got from Relena’s office– that we’d all gotten– that said that Heero Yuy had been reported dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at 3:45 AM, May 13th AC 197, at L1 Greater Memorial Hospital. Yeah, not to mention that Heero had disappeared to go blow his brains out, and that five years ago I had finally managed the cash to fly out to L1 and stand at his grave myself.  
  
_I’m such an idiot_. God’s a greedy fucking bastard, he doesn’t bring sinners back from the dead.  
  
“Thanks for the drink,” I say.  
  
He turns to me. He says, “what’s your name?”  
  
“Jake,” I say. That’s what this colony knows me as, anyway. “What’s yours?”  
  
“Malcolm,” Brown-Eyes-Brown-Hair-Shades-of-Heero says to me. Of course, of course. He smiles a little. “What do you do?”  
  
This conversation is fucking cliche. “Do you really want to know, or are you just asking?” I say, but I also think, why bother? We both know where this is going to go. He knew it from the moment I let him sit down, and I knew it from the moment that I realized his eyes couldn’t possibly be blue.  
  
He takes me in with a little quizzical smile. “I really want to know.”  
  
“Mechanic,” I say into my drink.  _I was, anyway_ , I think, but I don’t bother to include that little addendum. “You from around here?”  
  
He shakes his head. I thought as much. He has that haunted air around him, like he’s adrift, like the way Heero seemed to be. Like I am. Maybe that’s why I’m so good at recognizing it.  
  
The conversation drifts. He asks where I’m from, I say “nowhere.” I ask where he’s from, and he smiles a little and says, “nowhere.” Fair enough, I guess.  
  
We leave the bar not much later and walk to my place, maybe ten minutes, maybe a little less. He’s a little shorter than me, jeans, old shoes. He’s got a good build under those clothes. Heero was a scrawny little thing. He walks with his head forward, but when I look away, I feel his eyes on me.  
  
“You okay with dogs?” I say as we approach my apartment. He shrugs. Doesn't matter anyway. No one ever turned down anything this easy because they didn't like pets. I'm trying to remember if I've got protection anywhere in the house. Not necessarily just condoms-- actual firepower. I don't know this guy, after all.  
  
My apartment building is a walk-up, four flights of stairs to my place. I like it because there's no doorman to remember my name or my face. No one notices me, or cares when I come and go. Gotta keep in mind that there's no one who'll care if Brown Eyes decides to pull something on me, either.  
  
Halfway up the second flight of stairs he pushes me against the concrete wall and slides his tongue into my mouth. That strong jaw works as he kisses me, those broad hands sliding over my hips, and I almost fall into that trap again. It  _feels_  like what it would have felt like with Heero. What the fuck is it about this guy?  
  
My eyes open and all I see is brown, and my stomach drops, just like when I stood over Heero's grave and stared down at the perfect, straight lines that spelled out his name on the headstone. There was no birthday, just a year. I remember thinking what a goddamn shame it was. All of it was.  
  
Why was I the only one who cared anymore? Hell, three years after the fact, I saw on the news that Relena Darlian had married some blond diplomat in Sanq, and a year after that I caught the segment talking about her kids. I'd thought she'd be throwing herself in front of the first train after he'd bit that bullet, but instead, she'd just continued on like he'd never mattered at all. Why was I the only one still grieving, still trying to exorcise this goddamn ghost after all these years?  
  
“Let's go upstairs,” I say, licking the taste of him off my lips. His gaze is like a knife in my heart-- God dammit, this is cruel. Maybe I should be glad this guy's eyes aren't blue. Then, I wouldn't be able to catch myself from falling into them.  
  
We reach my door, and as soon as I turn my key, Roscoe is at attention on the other side, snarling and barking.  
  
“I'll put him away,” I say, and Brown Eyes shrugs.  
  
“It's okay. I'm good with dogs.”  
  
“No one is good with Roscoe,” I mutter, but open the door anyway. I don't care if this guy wants to get bitten or not. I'm too drunk to even remember his name. I wouldn't use it anyway.  
  
Roscoe is standing behind the door, growling, looking at the stranger with distrust. He's a real mongrel of a dog, real strange looking, too hairy for his own good, kind of like his owner. I found him wandering the streets of the colony and I took him in. A real couple of strays, the two of us.  
  
Brown Eyes stares Roscoe down-- Jesus, that  _stare_ \-- and he puts out his hand. My damn mutt puts his tail between his legs and goes right up to him. I feel a little like I've been betrayed.  
  
“You want a drink?” I say, kicking off my shoes.  
  
He shakes his head, scratching Roscoe behind his ears. A real traitor, that dog. But, hell, it’s not like I really have room to talk.  
  
“I'm gonna take a shower,” I say, and leave him standing in the living room.  
  
I give myself a long, unfocused look in the bathroom mirror while I wait for the water to get hot.  
  
“You're a fucking idiot, Duo Maxwell,” I tell my reflection. It doesn't deny it.  
  
I'm not even in the shower for very long before I hear the door open and shut. Brown Eyes doesn't say a word as he undresses, steps inside the curtain. Hands run across my chest, my back, down to my ass, my legs. He presses his mouth to the back of my neck. I don't try to stop him. I let him touch me anywhere he wants. I'm going to let him do whatever he wants to me.  
  
I feel him slide up against me, his skin warm and taut-- he really is muscular. I think,  _Heero was so much skinnier than this._  I think,  _I was pretty skinny back then, too. It's been ten years._  
  
I think,  _Heero is dead. He blew his brains out. I paid two thousand creds just to go see it for myself._  
  
But this guy, this random stranger from the bar, he has that same intensity in his stare, that same tense set of his shoulders, that same adrift atmosphere. He touches me the way I ached for Heero to touch me, once, and if I can't ever have Heero touch me that way, if I can never see his deep blue eyes again, then at least I can pretend for tonight that none of that is real. I can pretend Heero is still alive, that he found me in that dingy bar, that those are his hands on me, his mouth, his body.  
  
I'm going to make love to his memory tonight. I'm going to exorcise the ghost.  
  
He pushes me gently to the wall and spreads my legs. One hand wraps around my cock from behind, closing loosely around it, and a finger slides inside me. I let him open me up. He rakes his teeth along my shoulder and pushes another finger in. I moan for him; I'm too drunk, too lost in it to feel ashamed. I feel the weight of his cock against me, heavy and thick, and in a minute, he slides his fingers out and I feel him enter me, stretch me wide. I throw my head back and he runs his tongue along my jawline, breath hot against my ear.  
  
No birthday on his headstone. Just a year: AC 180. He deserved a birthday. He deserved for someone to remember him-- someone to care that he wasn't around anymore, someone to wish that he hadn't pulled that trigger. Someone to miss him. Someone to love him.  
  
I should've done something for him. He should've come to me. He shouldn't have fucking  _disappeared_. There was so much potential, so much to look forward to. So much left ahead of us.  
  
Now, what's left?  
  
Nothing. Nothing is fucking left. Just me and this damn ghost. This damn hollow in my heart. These ten lost years.  
  
The stranger suddenly turns me to face him-- God, he looks just like Heero, I miss him, I miss him so fucking much-- and lifts me up against the wall, like it's nothing. He is fucking  _strong_. Incredibly so. If he didn't have those brown eyes... those goddamn brown eyes...  
  
He thrusts into me, fast and hard. I grab him by the back of his head, sinking fingers into that messy hair, and kiss him greedily, sliding my tongue along his, sucking his lower lip between my teeth and biting down. His hands dig into my ass, pinning me to the wall, and he pumps himself deeply within me, again and again. When the water goes cold in the shower, he shuts it off absently with one hand, guides my legs to wrap around his hips, and carries me out of the shower, out of the bathroom-- he's unbelievably strong-- and down the hall.  
  
I break away from his mouth to say, “bedroom's in here,” and then he's bringing us inside, throwing me onto the bed, and he's thrusting into me again, never losing his stride. He presses his mouth to mine, hard, and then he breaks away to stare down at me, and I can't look away. Here in the darkness of my room, his eyes are shadows. I can't make out what color they really are; I can't break the spell.  
  
I think:  _It's him_. God, it has to be.  
  
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him against me as he thrusts faster and faster, both of us close. My heart pounds like it could burst through my chest. My breaths come in short, panicked gasps. I am completely, utterly lost.  
  
And it's there, somewhere on the edge of ecstasy and despair, that I whisper his name.  
  
“Heero...”  
  
The stranger brings his mouth to my ear, his breath heavy, his voice deep, roughened with lust.  
  
“Heero’s dead.”  
  
It was not a coincidence, I realize, that he ordered me gin.  
  
Then he moans, too close to completion to stop, and abandons himself to pleasure inside me, thrusting wildly, and in a moment I join him, arching, spilling myself between us. My mind goes blank and for a blissful, eternal moment, I feel whole again.  
  
He pulls away from me, and turns on the light by the bed. I look at him, stare up into his brown eyes. They look suddenly... artificial.  
  
I swallow my heart back down and scramble to my knees. Oh my God. If this is a dream... if this isn't real...  
  
He peers out at me from beneath choppy brown bangs. Of course. Of  _course_.  
  
“Duo,” he says, and the whole world tilts on its axis.  
  
Before I even know what I'm doing, I rear back and punch him in the jaw.  
  
His head whips back and he looks at me in total surprise, brown eyes wide-- contact lenses, you motherfucker!?-- and I hit him again. He goes right to the floor.  
  
“You  _asshole!_ ” I shout, as he stands up, one hand cradling his jaw, the other out to block any more punches I may feel like throwing. I feel like throwing thousands. “You piece of  _shit!_ ”  
  
“Duo,” he says, warily.  
  
“Ten years! Ten  _fucking_  years! You let me think that you were  _dead_ , you fucking asshole!”  
  
“I tried to find you,” he says, staring me down, “but you made it pretty fucking difficult yourself, 'Jake'.”  
  
“Oh yeah? And this is your idea of finding me? Picking me up at a bar with a fake name?”  
  
“ _You_  used a pseudonym,” he shoots back, “I thought you were implying we needed to be discrete.”  
  
Mother  _fucker_.  
  
“You're kidding me.”  
  
He seems to come to a sudden realization. “I thought you recognized me.”  
  
I think to myself,  _you really are an idiot, Duo Maxwell._  
  
“Your eyes are brown, shithead,” I mutter. “What was I supposed to think?”  
  
“You...” He pauses, then turns away, goes to the night stand by the bed. He places two small, faintly colored discs on the counter-- I cannot believe I fell for them-- and then he turns back to me.  
  
His eyes are so very blue.  
  
“Heero,” I stammer, and suddenly I need to sit down,  _now_ , and I almost tumble to the floor, but he catches me, still lightning fast, and pulls me against him, his arms strong and sure around me. I bury my face in the curve of his neck, drinking in the warmth of his skin, his heartbeat racing against my cheek.  
  
He's alive. He's  _alive_.  
  
He kisses my hair, where it is plastered wetly against my forehead. “I'm sorry it took so long,” he whispers. “I always intended to come find you, Duo.”  
  
“I thought you were dead, Heero...”  
  
“I'm sorry.”  
  
“I stood at your fucking  _grave_ \--”  
  
He cuts me off with a kiss that drains the last of my anger out of me, and I just cling to him for dear life. Somehow, it doesn't matter anymore, not now, not when my ghost is right here with me, whole and real and  _alive_.  
  
Sometime later, maybe minutes, maybe hours, he breaks away, his gaze as blue and unfathomable as the ocean. I can't look away, drowning in him, drunk and overwhelmed. He pulls us gently to our feet, then to the bed, and we lie together for a while in silence.  
  
“Why didn't we do this ten years ago?” I say at last.  
  
I feel the low rumble of his laughter against my skin. “I swear, I didn't originally intend to sleep with you tonight.”  
  
“You picked me up in a bar,” I point out. “And kissed me on the stairs.”  
  
“I... couldn't control myself,” he confesses. “Not after seeing you for the first time in so long.”  
  
“Heero...” I whisper. Then, “you are a fucking asshole.”  
  
He snorts. “And you are losing your touch.”  
  
My gaze flickers over the little colored discs on the table beside us and I think,  _no, you're just my weak spot._  
  
But I say instead, “so, where do we go from here?”  
  
He shifts beneath me, propping himself up on elbows, and I sit up, too, because I suddenly need to hear his answer; I need to see the look in his eyes.  
  
“Well,” he begins, “I'm dead, and you're virtually off the grid. We can go wherever we want.”  
  
Wherever  _we_  want. The words make me shiver. “What do you have?”  
  
“A hotel room across town, and a duffel bag.” He quirks a small, wonderful smile at me. He’s alive, oh God, thank you, he’s  _alive_. “What do you have?”  
  
“A month-to-month lease, and a dog.” I can hear him snoring on the living room couch as I speak.  
  
“It's a start,” he says, and he reaches out a hand to sink into my hair. I find myself drifting toward him, pulled in on his tide, drawn toward his mouth, his powerful gaze, his warmth, his life. His arms circle me, and I let myself drown in him again, again, again.  
  
Ten years. Ten years' worth of regrets, and despair, and loneliness to make up for. I have an apartment, an alias, and a dog to my name. I have a bad relationship with alcohol and fifteen credits in my bank account. I have a hole in my heart that has only just begun to be mended.  
  
But I have Heero back, and that means everything.


End file.
